Fall of Night (Dead of Night Series) (17 page)

She glanced around, saw some nods, a few blank stares, and Clark’s doubt-filled scowl. Dez locked her eyes on him.

“We’re not going to have a problem, are we?” she asked.

Trout wondered how long Clark could meet that uncompromising blue-eyed stare. As it turns out, the teacher lowered his eyes after maybe a full second. Trout was pleased that Dez wasn’t so small that she nodded to herself to acknowledge the victory. Clark wasn’t a bad guy or an asshole. He was scared and confused and defiance or resistance was probably the only way he knew to try and find solid ground or a scrap of personal power. Dez apparently knew that, too.

“Okay, then let’s get started,” said Dez. “I want this all done an hour ago.”

The group started to break up, but then Gerry Dunphries, the man who’d sung the fractured lullaby, grabbed Dez’s arm. “Wait, wait, hold on, let’s not go crazy here.”

Everyone paused, looking at him. His eyes were wide and wild and Trout was sure the man was a very short step away from screaming.

“Hold on for what, Gerry?” asked Dez.

“We’re acting like this is all really happening,” he said. “And it’s not. It can’t be. None of this is really happening. I mean, come on, people going crazy and … eating each other. That’s not happening. That’s not what’s really going on.”

Mrs. Madison took a step toward him and in a gentle voice asked, “Well, Mr. Dunphries, what do you think is happening?”

“It’s something in the water,” he said. “I mean, that’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s happened before. Like when they put LSD in the New York subways. They did that at the Chelsea Hotel, too. And in France back in the 1950s, the CIA did it in France, they put psychedelic mold in bread and freaked all those people. It was in, in, wait a minute, in … yes, in Pont-Saint-Esprit. And remember what Jim Jones did at Jonestown with the Kool-Aid. That’s what this really is. They’re doing something to us. They’re messing with our brain chemistry. This isn’t really happening. It’s something in the water. Maybe they seeded the clouds and that’s why it started happening when it started raining. Nobody’s really killing each other. My wife didn’t kill anyone. My kids are fine. Tracy and Sophie are just fine, and don’t you dare try and tell me different. They’re fine, but they’re probably freaking out, too, and we have to get out of here, not lock ourselves up. We have to get out and—”

And Dez Fox spun him around and slapped him across the face.

It was, after all, what you do with hysterical people. Trout had seen it a thousand times in movies and on TV. You slap the crazy out of them and knock some sense into them with a big opened-hand wallop across the chops.

The sound was as loud as a gunshot. Gerry Dunphries spun in nearly a full circle and caromed into Clark, who tried to catch him and failed. Gerry crashed to the floor, his face blossoming with a bright red handprint.

Dez loomed over him, hand raised for a second blow, her mouth starting to form words that Trout knew would be some variation of the “cowboy up” speech.

But Gerry screamed.

He scuttled away from her, tears breaking from his eyes, his mouth trembling as terrified sobs tore their way out him. He crawled all the way to the wall and huddled there, hunched and cowering, arms raised against the next blow. Against the next inevitable hurt.

The moment ground to a halt.

Everyone froze into a tableau that came close to breaking Trout’s heart. Dez was caught in a role for which she was totally ill-suited—that of a bully terrorizing a helpless person. The other people looked shocked but there was guilt there, too; everyone was complicit in this moment. If the slap had worked—and Trout doubted that it ever did outside of Hollywood or a bad novel—then they would have tacitly supported what Dez did. Instead they were bystanders to injury and there was no way to step back onto the ledge.

“I…” began Dez, but even that small a thing, a single tentative word, made Gerry flinch again. He buried his head under his arms and wept brokenly. Dez turned right and left as if looking for the doorway back to a minute ago. She spotted Trout. “Billy, I…”

Trout moved past her and knelt in front of Gerry, who instantly shied away. But Trout made very soft, very slow shushing sounds. He sat down on the floor next to Gerry, wrapped his arms around the man, and pulled him close, rocking him the way the man had rocked the little girl. Trout fought to find the words of that old nursery rhyme. Found some of it. Sang it quietly, leaning over Gerry to comfort the man with the warmth of another body.

“Come along,” said Mrs. Madison in a hushed voice. “We have work to do.”

One by one everyone left until only Dez lingered, looking wretched and guilty and confused. Trout met her eyes. He gave her as much of a smile as he could muster, then a small nod. He mouthed the words “It’s okay.”

Near to breaking herself, Dez Fox backed away until she reached the far end of the gymnasium, then she turned and fled.

“It’s okay, Gerry,” Trout said to the sobbing man. “It’s all going to be okay,” he lied.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

THE OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Scott Blair had a hard time keeping himself from committing a federal crime. He wanted to punch the president in the mouth.

No, he wanted to do more than that. He wanted to beat some sense into the man.

“Mr. President,” he said with as much control as he had left, “the intelligence we are getting from Captain Imura clearly contradicts the reports being filed by General Zetter. The situation in Stebbins is far from stable and—”

“And we have ten thousand additional troops inbound,” said the president. “We have another five on standby. The NBACC field team has arrived and they are making their assessment and, frankly Scott, I think they are in a better position to assess this kind of threat than a former special operator.”

“I couldn’t disagree more strongly,” insisted Blair. “Sam Imura is one of the most experienced people we have, with the except of Captain Ledger who is, unfortunately, out of country and out of reach.”

“Captain Imura is retired from active field work,” said Sylvia Ruddy. “He’s been out of the field, in fact, for years.”

“So what? I’d still trust his judgment more than anyone else on the ground in Pennsylvania.”

“That’s not your call to make,” said Ruddy.

Blair stiffened. “Mr. President, may I speak with you privately?”

The president scowled. “All right, that’s enough. I don’t want you two throwing rocks. This isn’t the time or place.”

Ruddy folded her arms and said nothing.

“Please, Mr. President,” said Blair, not budging. “Two minutes.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Ruddy, but the president held up his hand.

“If you don’t mind, Sylvia?” said the president.

She stared at him as if he’d kicked her. Then she turned on her heel and stalked about, slamming the door behind her. The president sighed.

“That’s going to cost me.”

Blair shifted to stand between the president and the closed door, forcing himself into the line of sight. The president sat back in his chair and gestured for him to speak.

“Two minutes, Scott.”

“Permission to speak candidly?”

“You keep asking that.”

“I keep needing to.”

They regarded each other, then the president nodded. “Go ahead.”

Blair leaned his fists on the edge of the desk. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What?”

“This isn’t like you,” said Blair, his voice low and even. “This isn’t even close to you. Yesterday you were in command, you were the voice of reason while all hell broke loose. Now you’re fumbling at the edges of this thing. Wait, hear me out. You said I could speak my mind and this may be the last chance I have.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on firing you.”

“Christ, who cares about that? How can you still think that this is about politics or anything but a crisis? Sam Imura knows biohazardous threats better than anyone currently on U.S. soil. Anyone. He trained most of the people in the NBACC teams. He wrote their field response protocols. While Simeon Zetter was playing hide-and-seek with the Taliban, Imura was hunting—and bagging—world-class bioterrorists and he did so for four different people who sat in the chair on which you are currently resting your ass.”

The president didn’t respond, but his face grew steadily redder.

“Sam said that the checkpoints along the Q-zone aren’t adequate. There are a couple of thousand local and state police itching to be a part of this. I know that we pulled them because we didn’t want to deal with the complications of jurisdiction and we were afraid of how they’d react if they found out our ground forces had to terminate infected police officers inside Stebbins. That’s yesterday’s news and it does not matter. What matters now is getting armed, trained men and women to reinforce that Q-zone while there is still time. The National Guard reinforcements won’t cross into Stebbins sooner than two hours. We can put a thousand police officers on that line in twenty minutes.”

“And we’d lose all control of the situation in terms of media and—”

“—and that doesn’t matter.”

The president shook his head. “Scott, while I commend you on your passion, I simply do not agree that we are in danger of losing control of the situation. I’ve known Simeon Zetter too long and too well to doubt his word.”

“So have I, and it’s not his word that I doubt. It’s his ability to properly assess this kind of situation.”

The president spread his hands. “I’m not convinced, Scott. Sorry.”

Blair really wanted to hit him.

He wanted to kill him.

He took a breath and said, “Will you at least do this much? I have a scientist in my office, a Dr. McReady. She’s possibly the best virologist we have and she wants to talk to you. She has some things to tell you about Lucifer that you don’t know. And she would like you to open a dialogue with Dr. Price at Zabriske Point.”

“Who at where? I don’t know that person.”

“That,” said Blair, “is the point. Price is the man who knows more about the Lucifer project than anyone.”

“And Zabriske Point?”

“It’s a bioweapons research laboratory in Death Valley.”

“Since when do we have a lab there?”

“We’ve always had one there.”

“You knew about this and I didn’t?”

Blair offered a chilly smile. “Yes, sir. It’s my job to know about such places. Just as it’s my job to advise you when the national security is in genuine peril.”

The president’s eyes were hooded as he considered that.

“Okay, Scott. Go fetch your mad scientist.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

ROUTE 653

BORDENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

Goat squeezed himself against the passenger door, long legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them, trying once again to hide behind his own limbs. Once again failing to accomplish an impossible task.

Beside him, Homer Gibbon steered the Cube from lane to lane. Windshield wipers slapped back and forth. On the radio Townes Van Zandt was singing about how he was “waitin’ around to die.” Homer had the volume so loud that it hurt Goat’s head and made his eyes twitch. Homer sang along, knowing every word.

When the song ended and a softer outlaw song by Willie Nelson started playing, Homer turned the volume down. Outside the rain was so heavy that the wipers were doing almost nothing. Homer never slowed down, though. He cruised at a steady seventy.

Goat found himself praying for an accident. He was willing to take his chances in a head-on collision. He eyed the wheel, wondering if he dared grab it and spin them into the oncoming headlights.

Maybe.

Maybe.

As if he could read Goat’s mind, Homer said, “Don’t be thinking bad thoughts, son.”

Goat squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

The killer beside him chuckled.

They drove.

Then Homer said, “Tell me about yourself, boy. What kind of reporter are you?”

When Goat could trust that his voice wouldn’t squeak, he said, “I … I’m a cameraman.”

“What—you ain’t even a reporter?” Homer’s mouth hardened. “The fuck?”

“No, I’m a reporter, but I mostly do camerawork. And video editing. And social media.”

“Social media? What’s that shit?”

“Twitter, Facebook, stuff like that.”

Homer grunted. “What’s that have to do with news?”

“Everything,” said Goat. He realized that this was a chance to reinforce his usefulness. “The Internet is a lot more important than anything when it comes to getting the news out there. Most people get their news from the Net.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen Yahoo News. But that ain’t that Twitter shit.”

“No, but a lot of people take URLs—Web address links—from sources like Yahoo News and other services, and they post them on Twitter and other social media platforms. Other people repost the links. Sometimes a news story only reaches a lot of people because of posts on social media. Everyone tweets these days. Even the president.”

“‘Tweets.’ Now ain’t that masculine as all shit?” Homer let loose a big horse laugh. “That’s hilarious. Look at me, Homer fucking Gibbon, public enemy number one, tweeting. That’s funny as balls.”

Goat shifted his position, still defensive but easing the stricture in his muscles. “It would get your story out,” he said. “To the biggest number of people. Millions. All over the world.”

Homer shot him a look. “For real?”

“Absolutely.” Goat paused. “That’s how we got this story out. Billy Trout sent me news feeds from town and I posted them all over the Net so they’d go—”

He chopped off that last word, not daring to say it.

But Homer reached over and jabbed him with a finger. “They’d go … what?”

“Um … there’s an, um, expression that, um…”

“Fucking say it, boy.”

Goat took a breath and said it in a rush. “When social media is used to break a story and it spreads really fast, it’s call ‘going viral.’”

It took Homer a moment to process that, and then he began laughing.

He was laughing so hard that he drove right off the road and slammed into a tree.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR